


Sick Day

by Xena1016



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27091258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xena1016/pseuds/Xena1016
Summary: pretty much what it says on the tin - a small drabble wherein one of the boys aren't feeling very well and the other tries to care for them.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Sick Day

* * *

Lance Corporal Blake had lost track of the time, and the un-wound face of his watch couldn't tell him.

All he knew for sure was that the German bombardment hadn't let up since the morning. And in the moments where he dared to peek out from the dugout, he could see that it was getting dark now.

It was cold, bitterly cold, as a late winter storm pushed through the area. His breath left white clouds in the air; frost was already forming over the moist earth.

And next to him, Schofield had become terribly sick.

The taller man seemed to have been in good enough health before the bombardment started. Still, he'd deteriorated considerably in the hours since.

First, it was the tremors.

Blake thought it was nothing more than fear, or the cold when he first huddled against Schofield in the trenches. The older man's whole body would shake and quiver, but he wouldn't say a word.

That concerned Blake, Scho was not the most talkative man to begin with, but he'd always been a solid presence for his younger friend. A calming hand on his shoulder or a stern order to keep his head down. The comforting lie that everything was going to be okay if Blake just did what Scho told him to.

But then, in the middle of German hellfire, the older man was utterly dumbstruck.

It wasn't until one of the shells collapsed the trench next to them that Blake realized how un-well Schofield was.

When the wave of mud and fire pushed the two men to the ground, Blake took off like a rabbit, but instead of joining him in a mad dash to the nearest dugout. Schofield stayed kneeling on the ground where he fell. 

Blake tried everything to get Scho to move. He shouted at the man, shook him about the shoulders, and ultimately, had to slap him across the face to get Scho to so much as blink at him.

Blake hadn't been able to get the image out of his head.

Schofield's pallor changed the strangest shade of green as his face morphed from despondent calm to shocked pain. He managed to wrench himself from Blakes grasp and collapse onto the duckboards before becoming horribly, violently, ill.

He kept retching and convulsing long after his stomach was emptied. Agonized gasps leaving the man as his body shook uncontrollably.

Blake panicked.

Was it the shelling? Had he been hit? Did the shock injure Scho on his insides? He didn't know; he just knew that Scho was in pain. Bake tried to carry him to the dugout but couldn't risk standing in the exposed trench.

Instead, the younger man had to grab Schofield's webbing, and bodily dragged them both along the ground until he reached the cloth-covered opening.

Blake did his best to treat his friend, looking all over for any injury, his hands pawing at Schofield's body. Scho had broken out into a sweat by then, his face ghostly pale and his hair sticking to his forehead in soaked curls.

All Schofield had managed to say about the whole ordeal was a weak plea for Blake to "stop moving around."

The younger soldier almost burst into tears when he told Scho that they weren't moving, but Schofield simply reiterated.

"Spinning."

Blake was no medical officer, and none had appeared when he started calling out for one. He was so utterly terrified that for an unknown amount of time, all he could do was cling to Schofield's webbing and beg the older man to stay with him.

Usually, Blake would have been ashamed of the way he cried into Schofield's chest. But the way Scho looked, his pale skin, the blue tinge on his lips and the way his body would shake and convulse. . . Tom was convinced his friend was dying.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Tom eventually pulled himself away from Schofield and went about doing anything to at least comfort his friend.

He pulled the wool blanket out of his kit and moved Schofields own to make some manner of pillow for him to lay on. He wrapped Will in his fleece and would force Schofield to sit up and take small sips of water.

He even tried to get him to eat at least a few bites of their rations. He heated some water and put one of his bullions to work so he could have some broth. But Schofield either didn't have the strength to drink or thought it wouldn't do any good.

Will wouldn't even open his eyes but took a great effort in rolling over onto his side, back facing Blake when the younger man tried getting him to eat one too many times.

Tom didn't know what to do...there was nothing else to do.

As the sun finally set and night took hold, Blake found himself cuddling up to Schofield. The way they had done countless times over the dreadful winter. Tom removed his kit, piling it in front of him while he pressed his back against Schofields.

The man was burning up.

Will made a small inquiring sound, his head moving just slightly at the sudden warmth at his back.

"It's just me Sco." murmured Blake reaching back and gently patting Schofield's hip. Will made another groaning noise, not quite words, but something to tell Blake that he understood.

There was no such thing as sleep during an enemy shelling.

Not even exhaustion could pull Blake into unconsciousness. He had to try and accept that at any moment, they could both be killed. Blown to pieces by a shell, buried alive in their dugout, or shot up if the Germans actually tried to press the line.

There was so much Blake couldn't do anything about, so he tried to focus on something he could control.

Like trying to get Schofield to stop shaking.

Blake rolled over and wriggled his way under the blanket, he made a low shushing sound and draped an arm over Schofield's side, he found Schofield's hand gripping the blue tin in his breast pocket.

Schofield made a small grunting noise and relaxed into Blake but said nothing.

At some point in the long hours of the night, Blake managed to drift into some form of rest, a light doze. His eyes slipped closed, and he pressed his forehead between Scho's shoulder blades. The cold bit at his back, but if there was one good thing about all of this?

Scho's fever did an excellent job of keeping them both warm.


End file.
